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Looking through my own shit and I fucking covered it. I’ve said what there is to say about this apartment. The insects living in it. The fungus inhabiting the grout, mineral crusts in the toilet, the stews bubbling in its various crock pots, et cetera, et cetera. I’ve fucking done it; I got fucked up, I got sober. I got laid, I didn’t. I was broke, I got dough. My fucking same goblin face in the same mirror. Desperately flexing the same obliques under the one flattering light over and over and the pictures still suck. It’s done. Nothing changed, yet tons of shit happened. You got to read about all of it. Now the movie’s over but I keep waking up. I need a muse and you’re a cunt, Angela, for not talking to me.

Women bored with me. I get why. I’d want shit to change but that could only mean my mom dies or I get hit by a car. Get cancer. Things are just pretty much under control. I got my Individual Retirement Account and the car loan half paid off and I’ll move somewhere cheap and make bank and stack cash and live my dream of retiring early and have NOTHING to think about. Able to write at last but won’t because my life does not exist. I got the novel about blowing up the world. Finish that I hope before my ass cyst comes back and then what, disappear. What are you gonna do. Bukowski was right, you need long periods of fucking off. This is one of them. Six year I’ve given you people, Jesus Christ.

Stop being so fucking nihilistic, of course things have meaning because the meaning of life is to have as high life quality as possible the most amount of time.
Sure fuck off with writing that whiny shit about your apartament but write some more stuff like that bird which singing sucked and then never got laid. Make yourself have som pride in the writing profession you whiny dick.

Grout seems impossible to clean. I’ve tried bleach, 409, Kaboom- both the spray and the foam. If you go to Home Depot, they sell “commercial strength” Kaboom and I thought my problems were solved. That supermarket-grade stuff is for suckers. I need the hardcore shit. The kind of bathroom cleaner that can eat through the hardened diarrhea and vomit of a college town’s TGI Fridays after a frat party. Still no dice. Nothing can clean the fucking grout.

Inasmuch as I hate white-knighting, let’s give the guy a break, kids. K?
Over a half decade of free free free entertainment, and, “Gimme gimme gimme, I need some more.” Who among you wants to pick up the torch? I’ve seen some evidence of talent among the trolls, but for the most part,
YOU’RE the lazy fucks. And buy his book already. Might afford homeboy a day to actually do nothing. Dat Middleditch-lookin’ sumbich earned it.

Hate to use the word ironic, but this may have been the most DT of all DT posts. Very satisfying here. Because I’m in the same place at about the same age. Right down to the toilet minerals, which I first noticed last week; looks about a 1/4 inch plaque. The daily debate: is it worth trying for kids with some worthless whore, or is this it? Which leads to… car, muscles, and social events; or ice cream, video games, and what’s the present value of the annuity for my minimum Thai streetmeat allowance from early retirement to early death. Nothing outstanding I can offer people, so no real existence. It’s about getting old in a nation that died 50 years ago, and knowing it.